Chapter 4 - The Shattered Gala
The conservatory on the Charles River was a cathedral of glass, light, and deceit.
Beneath the soaring Victorian arches, two hundred of Massachusetts’ most influential figures were gathered. Tuxedos, diamonds, champagne flutes catching the glow of thousand-dollar ice sculptures. Classical strings played softly from the mezzanine.
At the center of the hall, Sloane Barrett stood holding a glass of vintage champagne. Her platinum-blonde hair was swept into an immaculate chignon, and her emerald evening gown hugged a frame sculpted by personal trainers and pristine pedigree. Beside her stood her father, Senator Marcus Barrett, and my uncle, Salvatore Moretti.
Salvatore was pacing near the grand marble staircase, his silver hair slicked back, a dark scowl etched across his weathered face.
When the heavy bronze doors of the conservatory swung open, the entire room went silent.
I walked into the gala alone.
My coat was unbuttoned, my navy suit damp from the melting snow, my hair disheveled. I wore no smile. I offered no polite nods to the judges and councilmen who cleared a path for me.
Behind me, outside the glass walls, four armored vehicles sat idling with their lights extinguished. In the back of the center vehicle, surrounded by six of my most lethal guards, Elena and our four sons were safe, warm, and hidden.
"Dominic!" Sloane sighed in exaggerated relief, gliding toward me across the polished floor. Her red lips curved into a practiced, photogenic smile. "Where on earth have you been? My father has been pacing a hole in the floor. The press is outside."
She reached out to touch my lapel, but I took a deliberate step backward.
Her hand hovered in midair. Her smile stiffened.
Salvatore hurried over, his eyes burning with fury beneath heavy brows. "Dominic, what is the meaning of this? You’re forty-five minutes late. The ring. Do it now, before Marcus pulls his support for the harbor docks."
I looked at Salvatore.
I looked at the man who had raised me after my father died. The man who had taught me how to shoot, how to negotiate, how to rule. And the man who had ripped the woman I loved away from me, convincing her that I was a monster who wanted her dead.
"There is no proposal, Salvatore," I said, my voice cutting through the silent room like a razor through silk.
A collective gasp rippled through the high-society crowd.
Sloane’s pale face flushed crimson. "Dominic? What is this joke? Is this supposed to be some sort of theatrical entrance?"
"It’s not a joke, Sloane," I said calmly, looking her dead in the eye. "There will be no wedding. The engagement is terminated."
Senator Marcus Barrett stepped forward, his face turning an apoplectic purple. "Dominic Moretti, you arrogant son of a bitch! You think you can humiliate my daughter in front of the entire state? You think your family runs this town without my office? I will have the federal task force on every single one of your shipping containers by morning!"
"Do it, Marcus," I replied, my voice chillingly even. "Audit every crate. You’ll find your signature on half of the manifests. If I go down, Senator, you share a cell with me in Walpole."
Marcus choked on his words, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish.
Salvatore grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my bicep with immense force. "Dominic, outside. Now," he snarled under his breath.
I ripped my arm from his grasp with such violence that Salvatore stumbled back a step. The elderly mobster’s eyes widened in shock. No one had ever touched him like that in public.
"Don't touch me," I warned, stepping into his space until our faces were inches apart. "I know about the clinic, Salvatore."
At the word *clinic*, Salvatore’s pupils shrank to pinpricks. The color drained from his weathered cheeks.
"I know what you took from me six years ago," I whispered, the rage vibrating so intensely in my chest that my hands shook. "I know what you told her. And I know about the ring you stole."
"Dominic..." Salvatore croaked, his voice losing every ounce of its authority. "You don't understand. She was a nobody! A florist! A distraction! She would have ruined your claim to the chair. The family needed the Barretts! I did what your father would have done!"
"My father is dead," I growled, reaching into my jacket.
Several guests shrank back, expecting me to draw a weapon. Instead, I pulled out the velvet box containing the five-carat emerald-cut diamond ring meant for Sloane.
I didn't open it. I dropped it onto the marble floor.
The heavy box bounced, skidding across the slick stone until it struck the hem of Sloane’s designer gown.
"Keep the ring, Sloane. Sell it, throw it in the river, I don't give a damn," I announced to the room. "The Moretti family is under new management. If any man in this room—Barrett, Moretti, or otherwise—takes a single step against me or what is mine, I won't send lawyers. I will burn your empires to the ash they were built on."
I turned on my heel and walked out of the conservatory.
Behind me, the room erupted into chaos. Sloane was screaming, Marcus was shouting for security, and Salvatore was barking orders into his radio.
I didn't look back.
May you like
I walked out into the freezing winter night, where the only four things that mattered in this world were waiting for me in the dark.
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